


deep in our infected hearts

by freakedelic



Series: NonconWhumpKinktober 2020 [18]
Category: DCU (Comics), Suicide Squad (Comics), Suicide Squad: Hell to Pay (2018)
Genre: Blood, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/M, Homophobic Slurs, Infidelity, Mommy Issues, Noncontober 2020, Panic Attacks, Penis In Vagina Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26586763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: Floyd rolls his eyes. “Sure, Mama.” He tries to say something else but the air won’t come. Why won’t it come?Waller sits up. “You’re replaceable, convict. Don’t you forget that. And I ain’t yo fuckin’ mama.”
Relationships: Floyd Lawton/Amanda Waller
Series: NonconWhumpKinktober 2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1917016
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11





	deep in our infected hearts

**Author's Note:**

> okay this is way more dubcon. but where is the mod of noncontober to @ me over this? i see none.  
> noncontober day 18: blood and bruises, whumptober day 18: panic attacks, kinktober: blood

Digger says that Waller is a “fucking dyke.”

He’s wrong.

Floyd knows this because he’s bent over her in the too-small cot, fucking her like his life depends on it.

Which . . . well.

“I know you can go faster,” she hisses. Floyd digs his fists into the sheets as he aims downwards. He’s panting but he doesn’t slow down. Usually he’s able to go longer, but the bandages are wrapped around his chest from a knife wound from the last mission. But his dick is starting to feel good, even through the condom. “Faster, _convict_ ,” she demands, one hand digging into his wrist. He can see purple fucking manicured claws digging into his skin.

“Fucking—bitch,” he growls. She grins at him without humor.

“That’s it, Lawton. Just—like— _tha-at_ —”

“Fuck!” Floyd feels pain in his chest. He can barely breathe, stars beginning to dance in front of his vision as he fucks down into her. It feels good. “ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses, and then he comes, panting, vision swaying.

Floyd stops thrusting and pulls out, practically wheezing around the bandages. Fuck. He shouldn’t have gone so hard.

“Convict!” Waller snaps. He opens his eyes to see her angry face. “Get back to work! I haven’t finished!”

Floyd touches his chest. His fingers come away bloody. “C’mon, I’m bleedin’ out over here.” He has to suck in air. Every bit of it seems like a trial.

“You didn’t seem to give a shit when _you_ were gettin’ off.” Waller slaps his thigh. “Now return the favor or I blow your brains out.”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “Sure, Mama.” He tries to say something else but the air won’t _come_. Why won’t it _come_?

Waller sits up. “You’re replaceable, convict. Don’t you forget that. And I ain’t yo fuckin’ _mama_.”

Floyd tries to breathe. His chest is constricted. All he can do is look into her dark eyes and the face that is so familiar to him as his eyes bulge. His mouth opens like a fish for air. Everything seems to be closing in on him, all at once.

This can’t be happening. Everything is _wrong_. He stares at her. _She looks like Mother_. Her mouth is moving, but he can’t hear what she’s saying. He feels dizzy.

He stares. She gets . . . angry.

It takes all of Floyd’s will to jerk himself back. His head slams hard into the concrete at the foot of the bed. Waller’s mouth opens further. Is she yelling? He can hear something, vaguely, beyond the ringing in his head.

“Look at me! What the hell is wrong with you?”

Floyd opens his mouth. He can breathe again, just a little. He shakes his head, slowly bringing up a finger to ward her off in a _one second_ gesture. If he leans down, it’s easier to breathe as he sucks in air.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Are you having impotency problems?” Waller asks.

“I told you I was fuckin’ bleeding!” Floyd snaps. “Just—gimme a sec.” The stars dance in the corners of his eyes, but as he blinks they recede. Maybe he’s developed heart problems. Waller might be right, maybe he really _should_ see the doc, before he has a stroke and dies of something that is frankly embarrassingly banal. “Alright,” he declares, after a few deep breaths. His hands still shake in front of him.

_Get a fucking grip, Lawton_ , the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Waller tells him. He peels off the condom, flicking it behind him into the wastebasket. Then he bends down over her. She sighs, but seems to accept that his dick is done for now. He licks his lips, moving a hand up to her breasts—

Those fucking snapped-manicured nails grab his wrist. “You’re not my husband, convict.”

“Does your husband know you’re fucking a murderer?” Floyd taunts.

She pushes at his head. “Shut the fuck up and get to work.” Floyd leans down, spreading her thighs and getting enough saliva on his tongue for this to work. “And be careful with that mustache, it chafes.”

“Fucking bitch,” he mutters into her folds.


End file.
